Page 12 of Mayhem

Devon wiped the edge of his knife with his napkin, eyes down. “Covered means leave it alone. That’s all most people need to know.”

“That’s all people here accept knowing,” I said, and his gaze lifted to mine.

For a second, the table went too still. I took another fry and smiled at Priya because she was the easiest one to make underestimate me, then ruined it by looking back toward the frosted glass doors. “I’m trying to understand the local wildlife. Everyone keeps saying the Kings like that should explain the food chain, but no one says what they actually are.”

Priya blew out a breath and sat back, settling into the answer like she’d been waiting for permission to talk. “They’re not a club, no matter what people say when they’re trying to make it sound harmless. They’re not student government either, because student government wears lanyards and sends surveys no one reads. The Kings are just… the Kings. They have rooms, people, rules, and enough money behind them that nobody wants to find out where the edge is. People say they run things, but people say that about anyone with a locked door and a private table.”

“Do they?” I asked.

“Run things?” Priya looked toward Devon, then back at me. “They run enough.”

Devon’s voice dropped, low enough that it stayed at our table. “There are parts of Aldrich where official rules matter. Classes. Scholarships. Housing, sometimes. Then there are parts where everyone knows the official rules are what gets written down after someone important decides what already happened. The Kings live in that second part.”

I let that settle while the cafeteria moved around us. Before I could ask anything else, the room shifted.

A boy near the entrance stepped backward so quickly his shoulder hit the girl behind him. Conversations thinned in a line from the doors to the upper stairs. The woman who crossed through didn’t thank anyone for moving. I glanced at the intrusion, all dark auburn hair, altered uniform jacket, and heels that made less noise than mine even though hers were sharper.

I leaned toward Priya without taking my eyes off the woman. “Why do I feel like she’s important?”

Priya’s whole face lit with the vicious joy of finally getting to explain something else properly. “Camille Voss. Former girlfriend of the King, current problem, permanent fixture in rooms most of us don’t get to stand near. No one knows what happened with the breakup, and everyone pretends they don’t care, which is how you know they care so much it’s embarrassing. She still gets into the upper hall, still talks to security like payroll is a family hobby, and still gets treated like someone whose bad mood might show up in your father’s quarterly numbers.”

Camille stopped near the guard by the upper hall. He was older, broad through the shoulders, and visibly not impressed by most students. Camille said something without turning fully toward him, and he opened the side door for her without checking a list, badge, or expression of permission from anyone else.

Interesting.

“She used to date one of the Kings?” I asked.

“The King,” Devon emphasized, then caught himself before giving me anything more useful. “People say it that way.”

Priya rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t make it sound like a fairy tale. It wasn’t romantic enough for that, and Camille would probably have anyone who called her tragic removed from campus by dinner. But yes, one of them. The one people mean when they say it like there’s only one. They’re over now, but she’s still protected.”

“Protected from what?” I watched the side door shut behind Camille. “A little college bullying? Someone replacing her conditioner with cheap vodka?”

Priya looked back at me, and the humor dropped out of her face so fast it almost annoyed me. “You really don’t get it, do you? I knew you were new, but I thought maybe the whole not-rich thing was a performance. Some people do that here. They wear thrifted jackets that cost eight hundred dollars and talk about being normal before flying home for ski weekends.”

“I’m here for school,” I said.

“Everyone says they’re here for school,” Priya said, talking faster now. “Some even mean it. But they’re also here with pieces attached. Family companies, hospital boards, property groups, contracts, charities that are basically tax shelters with nicer brochures. My family has two resorts, a boutique hotel chain, and a restaurant group my uncle uses to punish anyone who tells him his menus are too long. Devon has legal-policy firms on one side and consulting on the other, which is rich-person code for making regulations blink first. Maren’s grandmother owns land the city keeps trying to pretend isn’t important, and her parents manage the trusts attached to it.”

Maren’s fingers tightened around her spoon, but she didn’t correct Priya. Devon only took a drink of water, gaze on me over the rim of his glass.

I looked at their plates because looking at them felt too close to giving something away. Salmon, saffron rice, edible flowers, lime water, truffle fries cooling between us. “I own a motorcycle, a hostile personality, and several emotional problems I refuse to turn into a brand. I don’t have a company, a trust, or a vineyard pretending it’s agriculture. I’m here for school.”

Priya opened her mouth, then shut it again, which was the first time I’d seen restraint from her and didn’t care for it. Maren’s gaze moved over me slowly, from the jacket they’d forced me into to the shoes I hated to my hands around the coffee cup. Devon’s expression changed too, softening in a way I didn’t trust. Pity looked ugly on everyone.

“Okay,” Maren said.

“Not okay like you believe me,” I said.

“Okay like I’m adjusting.”

Priya dragged the fries back toward the center of the table, giving me access again. “Protection here isn’t about people being rude to Camille in the bathroom. It’s retaliation. Someone embarrasses her, and a development permit stalls. Someone threatens her, and an internship disappears. A donor pulls out. A scholarship gets reviewed for a clerical issue nobody noticed yesterday. An audit opens. A family friend stops answering calls. Nobody has to touch you to hurt you.”

That was the first explanation that didn’t sound like rich people mistaking discomfort for violence.

I looked around the cafeteria again. It didn’t change for me just because I understood a little more. Students still ate from white plates. Someone laughed near the windows. At the next table, the girl who had said Nichlas’ name was staring hard at her salad while her friend whispered with her mouth barely moving. The room was all silk and silverware and careful hands, and under every sleeve was a wrist someone else could grab.

Father Three would’ve liked the structure. Father Two would’ve hated how obvious the weak spots were if anyone bothered to look. Father One would’ve made me eat before letting me think too hard. Father Four would’ve told me to pull the first thread and see who tried to stop the fabric from tearing.